Demons
"Sorry we're late." John nodded at the DI, "Rosie's first day of daycare."
Lestrade raised an eyebrow, "Mrs. Hudson complain of babysitting?"
"No, Mrs. Hudson's an angel, but it's about time Rosie interacted with kids her age." John looked at Sherlock who was busy examining the body. "So Greg, what do we have?"
Sherlock rattled off, "His fingers are callused and his thumb and forefinger are stained with blue ink. He wrote and typed a lot, but he's not an indoor person, evidently from the worn out clothes and muddy sneakers. His neck shows signs of rashes from a strap. A strap that goes around your neck and callus on the fingers? Obviously a camera. No watch. Odd. No phone."
John peered at the body. "There are signs of exhaustion," Dr. Watson added "...he ran..."
"He was aware he was being followed." The detective drawled.
Lestrade cut in. "Victim's Harold Jernigan. Freelance photographer at the Times" the officer huffed. "We're nearly done with the park. Boys found something!" Greg exclaimed loud enough for the consulting detective to hear.
Sherlock glanced in the DI's direction. "Their IQ, I presume."
John smirked.
Donovan walked up to the three men, "Greg, we got a..." she turned to Sherlock "Come on freak. Found some things. A camera too, I think." she added mockingly. John glanced at Sherlock and then at Sergeant Donovan. Sherlock followed, gazing coolly at the officers ahead. The group stopped in front of the items displayed; a worn out bag, old boots, a tattered umbrella, a torn jumper and a camera. Donovan nodded at the camera, "Deduct away. Nothing in it though." Sherlock took one glance at the contents spread out on the sheet, typed something on the mobile and started walking towards the park gate. John stared after him and turned to Greg "Uh...I'll let you know if something comes up."
The taller man had already flagged a cab. The blogger stopped beside the detective. "So, where are we going?"
"221 B, Baker street."
They stopped by the Chinese restaurant on the way home. "What are we doing here?" Watson asked as Sherlock opened the door. "Lunch."
"Sherlock, you don't 'do' lunch." John exclaimed "Heck, you wouldn't even have food if it wasn't for me stuffing it down your throat."
"We're here for you."
The doctor felt sheepish. The two men sat down. John picked up the menu and stared at the contents.
"You might raze a hole into it" Sherlock drawled while texting. A waiter came by to take their order. Sherlock slipped the boy a twenty pound note and spoke to him in Mandarin. John's jaw dropped. The boy nodded and rushed to the kitchen behind the curtain.
"Since when do you speak Chinese?!"
"Mandarin." Sherlock looked up from the mobile. "I was away for two years."
"Yeah, I remember that." John spoke, his voice laced with irritation, "but I don't remember this."
"I was bored."
"Of course, because learning Chinese is what people do when they're bored."
"Mandarin." Sherlock added.
"I don't care!" John fumed "The point is..."
"The point is one of Moriarty's links was a member of the Triad." The thin man stated finely. John sighed, his face flush from embarrassment and irritation. The boy returned with two crates of noodles and a folded piece of paper. Sherlock opened the door. Watson stepped out, holding the crates. "We were here for breadcrumbs, weren't we?" he cocked his head to the side, tongue in cheek.
Sherlock shot an innocent look "Whatever do you mean...Gretel." He smirked.
"Hello Eva..." the man moved closer to the lady seated by the bar.
"What is it now Mark?" she shot him an exasperated look.
"Come on Eva...pretty please?"
The bartender raised an eyebrow. The woman turned, "First of all..." The bartender walked up to the pair and placed a beer beside the lady, "On the house." She smiled gratefully and shot a withering glance at 'Mark'. The lady turned to answer her mobile, shouting back at the incoherent voices that shot through the speaker. Cutting the call, she paid her tab and walked out, beer in hand. The homeless resident on the pavement glanced longingly at the draught. "Oh, what the heck..." she muttered "Here." She thrust it at him and walked away.
Sherlock rolled his eyes as Sergeant Donovan questioned the bartender.
"Sergeant Donovan, you did not get a clue the first five times and you shan't now." Sally shot daggers at the lanky detective. "Allright , your turn." Sherlock moved aside. John knelt down beside the body of the homeless man. "Cause of death: Poison. Lips are dry...and hands are marked, consistent with usage" Sherlock nodded imperceptibly. "but, it doesn't look like he's been at it for long." John continued.
Lestrade walked up to the pair. "Victim is James Vintner. I had Wiggins do a run through. Bloke was a big shot down at the Stocks. Been missing for six days. His family hadn't filed a report since he went on business tours quite a lot without telling them." Greg nodded in the bartender's direction, "apparently, that's right around when he appeared in front of the pub. Been on the pavement since. Yesterday, the bartender saw a girl give the chap a beer, but according to him, she's a regular and the beer was on the house. No lead there. He remembers a guy pestering the lady though. He thinks he saw the man drop something in the lady's drink."
Sherlock started walking towards the park. John stared after him and turned to Greg "Uh..." Greg nodded, "Yes, you'll let me know if something comes up."
John smiled sheepishly, "Right, yes."
The blogger stopped beside the detective. "Well?"
"I need to go to St. Barts." The younger man spoke in between his texts.
"Let's go then." John said flagging a cab.
"I need to go to St. Barts. You need to go to Mr. Vintner's house." Sherlock raised the collar of the Belfast and got into the taxi. "To St. Barts." he told the cabbie.
John walked up the stairs with Rosie pulling at his cheek. He popped a bubble and she giggled. There was a scuffle of footsteps as John entered 221B holding Rosie. Bill Wright was standing across the hall, staring at Sherlock who had his eyes closed. "Shezzer, keep an eye out for this one. It's bad business." The straggly man nodded at John, "Good day Doctor." He skirted out of the apartment.
"What was that about?" Sherlock didn't respond. John sighed; there were times when he wanted to enter Sherlock's Mind Palace, but he figured he'd get lost. He placed Rosie on Sherlock's lap. "There you go sweetie. Pick at uncle Sherlock for awhile" Watson stepped into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. "Lizzie asked about you." He added from behind the counter.
Sherlock didn't respond. Rosie tugged at the younger man's black curls.
"Sherlock?" The marble face remained as impassive as ever.
John smirked. He had no idea why women bothered with the Sociopath in the first place; the man was asexual to begin with. It's probably his cheek bones and the suit, the doctor thought to himself. John turned, nearly spluttering his tea; both Sherlock and Rosie had the same expression: eyebrows scrunched in deep thought.
"So, what'd you find at Molly's?" he asked, trying to hold back his smile.
"The drink didn't kill him, his body did." Sherlock opened his eyes.
"I'm sorry?" John looked up from his tea. "His body killed itself?"
"No, the chemical in his body combined with the Rophynol that was in the woman's beer." "Okay..." John caught a glimpse of the photos on the laptop screen. "What's that?"
"Either an Arab delegate or the Elder Prince himself and to his right, a man who looks a lot like the son of Li Qiang; young Li Jun." Sherlock sat in the sleek leather chair. Rosie was grappling with his dark locks.
"Where did you get those photos?" John sat up.
"Homeless Network. I had sent out word I was searching for a camera strap lost near the shipyard." Sherlock was walking around the room, Rosie in his hands.
"Camera strap?" John turned.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "John, you see, but..."
"I do not observe. Yes. Thank you Spock. Now explain the strap."
"Harold Jernigan's neck showed signs of rashes from a strap. The camera of the freelance photographer lacked a strap. The editor said he had been covering the Immigrants Bill." John looked up from the laptop, "Wait a minute...the Immigrants Bill...The talk's tomorrow." "The talk stands," Sherlock continued. "Mycroft called from Berlin and cleared it up with a source at the Sultanate. The old King and the Young prince don't know of such a meeting." "Explains why the journalist was killed..." The blogger added as he sipped tea.
"Hmm...add drugs to that." The younger man held up a small rectangle piece of glass. "My homeless network brought me this from the shipyard."
"Drugs?" John glanced at the mobile screen guard. "Wait a minute, the Vintner kid said he saw his father staring at a piece of glass...three days before he disappeared!"
"Crystal meth compressed in the form of a mobile screen guard." Sherlock pressed his fingertips together. "Effective, but for what?!" Rosie tried pulling Sherlock's fingertips apart.
Mrs. Hudson opened the door. "Sherlock, there's a limousine waiting for you." Turning to the young detective, "I don't understand why your brother can't call you instead."
"That's because they're arch enemies Mrs. Hudson." John added mockingly.
"Oh really?" Mrs. Hudson smiled as she picked up Rosie "That's adorable. I used to play that with my sister."
Sherlock slipped on the Belfast.
John glanced at the younger man as he stepped out the door.
He looks calm.
"Mrs. Hudson, could you?..." The blogger quipped, picking up his jacket.
"I'd be happy to." The old lady cooed.
The Captain kissed the toddler on the forehead, and turned to the landlady "Be back in an hour."
John found Sherlock on the last step. "Vatican Cameo?" the army doctor spoke up. Sherlock looked up as John scrutinized him from the landing. "I'll tell you what you won't do. You won't go into hell again. Not alone. Yeah?" Sherlock nodded, half dazed at John reading him like a book. "I'd really hate to shoot another cabbie." The army doctor added as he opened the door.
A man in black stood by the open door of a limo. The two men glanced at each other and got in. The car's perfume was a bit strong for Sherlock's taste. They made a mental note of signs as the vehicle sped along the streets.
A voice sounded in front of them, "Hello gentlemen. Pleasure meeting ya. Now if you will, it is a long journey ahead, so you might wanna get some rest. Sweet dreams."
A yellow gas burst forth engulfing their senses.
"Sherlock!..."
John blinked. He woke up to find an injured Sherlock, lying on top of him. Despite the man's lean appearance, he was heavy. Watson looked around; they were in a dimly lit building, a very clean shipyard by the looks of it. There were huge glass windows near the ceiling. John squinted at the glass. Whoever had brought them here was probably up there watching them. He turned to take a look at his friend; Sherlock looked worse than he did.
"Hello Dr. Watson and Mr. Holmes." A voice rang through the yard. "Hmm...really, I'm flattered at having you two investigate my case. At least you tried, right?" John stared at the glass window. "Don't bother doctor. It's one way."
John looked around and then turned his attention to Sherlock. The lanky detective was awake. "So, you found out about Prince Al...what the hell. It's so f***ing long. So the Arab Prince and the Chinese dude. There. You must've realised by now it's got something to with the crystal meth..."
"Tell me" Sherlock flinched, "what is it?!"
"Oh you mean, what did you miss?" the voice sniggered. "Well, picture this. An elder prince, in line to the throne, surpassed by his younger brother who was chosen by their dear old daddy and an ambitious Chinese boy who wants to expand his father's mafia-dom and make his old man proud. What do they lack?"
John looked at Sherlock who was staring at the glass window.
The voice rang again. "Oh come on, they lack the material."
"So you give them what they need and..." John started.
"And they give me a kingdom," the voice added.
"Founded on drugs." Sherlock finished.
"The mind is a very funny thing Mr. Holmes." The voice started "My father and Gatlev worked extensively on it; several of them in fact. They would have perfected it, if it weren't for that stupid Osborn. If it weren't for him, Project MKUltra would've changed the face of humanity." "Is that why you killed Mr. Vintner?" John asked.
"Obviously. The man was excited with the idea and hey, I needed the cash. Initial investment, you know. Of course, he didn't like the idea of testing it on himself. I told him it was that or his family." Another laugh and the voice continued "Funny thing relationships. Strength and weakness. Enough talk. Now, let's see who'll shoot first shall we?" his voice taunted the pair.
Another voice rang in their ears:
"John Watson, shoot Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock Holmes, shoot John Watson."
The two men looked at each other. The voice resumed, "fail to obey the command and you might experience a slight headache…" They were sure they heard a snigger after that, but their thoughts were cut short by a throbbing in their head; slow, drawn out and excruciating, as if their skulls were about to split.
Both men convulsed.
John started shooting the walls and was finally out of bullets. Even in his pain, he managed to look at the window and smirk. He sat hunched against the wall, clutching his head which was still throbbing.
Sherlock looked at John, raised the gun and shot himself below the shoulder. "That should do it." he said, writhing in pain. John rushed to the other side of the room. Leaning over Sherlock, he took the scarf and used it to soak the blood and apply pressure on the wound. "You idiot! Bloody git!" John hissed. His mind was working out ways to reduce the bleeding, not heeding the waves of pain coursing through.
"Ah, and then we have the adjectives…" Sherlock mumbled in pain.
"Why the hell did you do that?!"
Sherlock opened his eyes and squinted at John. "Because I have a doctor."
'…The only way to save John Watson is to let him to save you…'
John sighed. The voice sounded again through the loudspeaker; "Well, well, well. Your loyalty to each other is commendable. You could..." The pair heard a gunshot followed by the sound of breaking glass and a choked voice, "Who are you?!...'
A familiar voice could be heard through the speaker. "Good afternoon Mr. Cameron. My name is Mycroft Holmes. I occupy a minor position in the British Gover..."
Sherlock looked at John, "And you say I'm the drama queen."
John laughed despite the pain.
"So, where will he be sent?" John asked, fighting the urge to wring their torturer's neck. He was outside with Mycroft, as police personnel scanned the area. Both men watched as 'Cameron' was being taken away. "He'll be sent where the East Wind blows…"
John raised an eyebrow in confusion, but was wide-eyed when he understood the reply. "Isn't that a bit harsh?..."
Hmm…despite what he thinks, my brother does have a heart. I'm afraid it's you, John.
Mycroft turned to face the shorter man, "It is out of my hands. She already knows." Mycroft glanced at the paramedics loading Sherlock into the ambulance "…and she isdying to meet her brother's new friend…"
John shook his head, "Tough luck…"
Mycroft watched as the army doctor limped towards the ambulance. The older Holmes rang a number on his mobile and a calm voice sounded on the other side.
"My present Mycroft."
"It is on its way."
"Good."